Dances With Wolves

CHAPTER XIV

Minutes after the white man’s departure, Ten Bears called another council. Unlike the recent meetings, which had begun and ended in confusion, Ten Bears knew exactly what he wanted to do now. He was set on a plan before the last of the men had seated themselves in his lodge.

The white soldier with blood on his face had brought back Stands With A Fist, and Ten Bears was convinced that this surprise was a bright omen, one that should be followed through on. The issue of the white race had troubled his thoughts too long. For years he had not been able to see anything good in their coming. But he wanted to desperately. Today he’d seen something good at last, and now he was determined not to let what he considered a golden opportunity slip past.

The white soldier had showed extreme bravery in coming alone to their camp. And he had obviously come with a single intention . . . not to steal or cheat or fight but to return something he had found, something that belonged to them. This talk of gods was probably wrong, but one thing was abundantly clear to Ten Bears. For the good of everyone, this soldier should be investigated. A man who behaved like this was bound to be positioned high with the whites. It was possible that he already carried great weight and influence. A man like this was someone with whom agreements might be reached. And without agreements, war and suffering were sure to come.

So Ten Bears was encouraged. The overture he had witnessed that afternoon, though it was only a single event, appeared to him as a light in the night, and as the men filed in, he was thinking of the best way to put his plan into action.

While he listened to the preliminaries, throwing in an occasional comment of his own, Ten Bears sifted through a mental roster of reliable men, trying to decide who would be best for his idea.

It wasn’t until Kicking Bird arrived, having been held up by attending to Stands With A Fist, that the old man realized it should not be a one-man job. He should send two men. Once that was decided, the individuals came to him quickly. He should send Kicking Bird for his powers of observation and Wind In His Hair for his aggressive nature. Each man’s character was representative of him and his people, and they complemented each other perfectly.

Ten Bears kept the council short. He didn’t want the kind of protracted discussions that could lead to indecision. When the time was right, he made an eloquent, beautifully reasoned speech, recounting the many stories of white numerical superiority and white riches, especially in terms of guns and horses. He concluded with the notion that the man at the fort was surely an emissary and that his good actions should be cause for talking, not fighting.

There was a long silence at the end of his speech. Everyone knew he was right.

Then Wind In His Hair spoke up.

“I do not think it is right for you to go and speak to this white man,” he said. “He is not a god, he is just another white man lost in his way.”

A tiny twinkle flashed in the old man’s eyes as he made his reply.

“I will not go. But good men should. Men who can show what a Comanche is.”

Here he paused, shutting his eyes for dramatic effect. A minute passed, and some of the men thought he might have fallen asleep. But at the last second he opened them long enough to say to Wind In His Hair:

“You should go. You and Kicking Bird.”

Then he closed his eyes again and dozed off, ending the council at just the right place.

The first big thunderstorm of the season came that night, a miles-long front marching to the hollow boom of thunder and the brilliant crackle of forked lightning. The rain it brought swept over the prairie in great rolling curtains, driving everything that lived to shelter.

It woke Stands With A Fist.

The rain was drumming against the lodge’s hide walls like deadened fire from a thousand rifles, and for a few moments, she didn’t know where she was. There was light, and she turned slowly on her side for a look at the little fire that was still popping in the center of the lodge. As she did, one of her hands drifted over the wound on her thigh and accidentally brushed against something foreign. She felt carefully and discovered that her leg had been sewn.

Everything came back to her then.

She glanced sleepily around the lodge, wondering who lived here. She knew it was not hers.

Her mouth was dry as cotton, so she slid a hand from under the covers to explore with her fingers. The first thing they bumped into was a little bowl half-filled with water. She lifted herself to one elbow, took several long swallows, and lay back down.

There were things she wanted to know, but thinking was difficult now. It was warm as summer under the robe. The fire’s shadows were dancing happily above her head, the rain was singing its strong lullaby in her ears, and she was very weak.

Maybe I am dying, she thought as her eyelids began to lower, shutting down the last of the firelight. Just before she fell asleep she said to herself, It is not so bad.

But Stands With A Fist was not dying. She was recovering, and what she had suffered, once it was healed, would make her stronger than ever.

Good would be coming out of the bad. In fact, the good had already begun. She was lying in a good place, a place that would be her home for a long time to come.

She was lying in Kicking Bird’s lodge.

Lieutenant Dunbar slept like the dead, only vaguely aware of the spectacular show in the sky overhead. Rain punished the little sod hut for hours, but he was so snug and secure under the pile of army-issue blankets that Armageddon could have come and gone without his knowing it.

He never stirred, and it wasn’t until well after sunup, long after the storm had passed on, that the carefree, persistent singsong of a meadowlark finally brought him around. The rain had freshened every square inch of the prairie, and the sweetness of its smell was shooting up his nose before he could open his eyes. At first flutter he realized he was lying on his back, and when they opened he was looking directly over his toes at the hut’s entrance.

There was a flash of movement as something low and hairy ducked away from the door. The lieutenant sat up, blinking. A moment later the blankets were thrown aside and he was tiptoeing unsteadily to the entrance. Standing inside, he peered around the jamb with one eye.

Two Socks had just trotted clear of the awning and was turning around to settle himself in the sun of the yard. He saw the lieutenant and stiffened. They watched each other for a few seconds. Then the lieutenant rubbed at the sleep in his eyes, and when he dropped his hands, Two Socks stretched out prone, his muzzle resting on the ground between his outstretched legs, like a dutiful dog waiting for his master.

Cisco whinnied shrilly in the corral, and the lieutenant’s head jerked in that direction. He caught a simultaneous flash from the corner of his eye and turned back in time to see Two Socks galloping out of sight over the bluff. Then, as his eyes panned back to the corral, he saw them.

They were sitting on ponies, not a hundred yards in front of him. He didn’t make a count, but there were eight of them.

Two men suddenly started forward. Dunbar didn’t move, but unlike previous encounters, he held his ground in a relaxed way. It was in the way they were coming. The ponies’ heads were drooping as they plodded in, casual as workers coming home after a long, routine day.

The lieutenant was anxious, but his anxiety had little to do with life or death.

He was wondering what he would say and how he could possibly communicate his first words.

Kicking Bird and Wind In His Hair were wondering exactly the same thing. The white soldier was as alien as anything they had ever met, and neither one knew how this was going to turn out. Seeing that blood was still smeared on the white soldier’s face didn’t make them feel any better about the meeting that was about to begin. In terms of roles, however, each man was different. Wind In His Hair rode forward as a warrior, a fighting Comanche. Kicking Bird was much more the statesman. This was an important moment in his life, the life of the band, and the life of the whole tribe. For Kicking Bird a whole new future was beginning, and he was sitting in on history.

When their faces were close enough to be distinct, Dunbar instantly recognized the warrior who had taken the woman from his arms. There was something familiar about the other man, too, but he couldn’t place him. He didn’t have time.

They had stopped a dozen feet in front of him.

They looked all lit up, resplendent in the glittering sunshine. Wind In His Hair was wearing a breastplate of bone, and a large metal disk hung around Kicking Bird’s neck. These things were reflecting in the light. There was even a glint coming off their deep brown eyes, and each man’s shiny, black hair was shimmering with sun streams.

Despite having just awakened, there was a certain sheen about Lieutenant Dunbar as well, though it was much more subtle than that of his visitors.

His crisis of the heart had passed, leaving him as the storm of the night before had left the prairie: fresh and full of vigor. Lieutenant Dunbar tipped forward in the suggestion of a bow and tapped his hand against the side of his head in a slow and deliberate salute.

A moment later Kicking Bird returned this overture with a strange movement of his own hand, turning it over, from back to palm.

The lieutenant didn’t know what it meant, but he interpreted it correctly as a friendly gesture. He glanced around, as if to make sure the place was still there, and said, “Welcome to Fort Sedgewick.”

What the words meant was a complete mystery to Kicking Bird, but as Lieutenant Dunbar had done, he took them for some kind of greeting.

“We have come from Ten Bears’s camp to make a peaceful talk,” he said, drawing a blank look of ignorance from the lieutenant.

Since it was now established that neither one would be able to converse, a silence fell over the two parties. Wind In His Hair took advantage of the lull to study the details of the white man’s buildings. He looked sharp and long at the awning, which was now beginning to roll in the breeze.

Kicking Bird sat impassively on his pony as the seconds dragged. Dunbar tapped his toe against the ground and stroked his chin. As time ticked away he grew nervous, and his nervousness reminded him of the morning coffee he’d missed and how much he wanted a cup. He wanted a cigarette, too.

“Coffee?” he asked Kicking Bird.

The medicine man tilted his head curiously.

“Coffee?” the lieutenant repeated. He curled his hand around an imaginary cup and made a drinking motion. “Coffee?” he said again. “To drink?”

Kicking Bird merely stared at the lieutenant. Wind In His Hair asked a question and Kicking Bird answered. Then they both looked through their host. After what seemed an eternity to Dunbar, Kicking Bird finally nodded his assent.

“Good, good,” said the lieutenant, patting the side of his leg. “Come along then.” He motioned them off their horses and waved them forward as he walked under the awning.

The Comanches trailed along cautiously. Everything their eyes fell on had an air of mystery and the lieutenant cut something of a ludicrous figure, fidgeting like a man whose guests had caught him off guard by arriving an hour early.

There was no fire going in the pit, but luckily he’d laid in enough dry wood for coffee. He squatted next to the pile of kindling and started making up the fire.

“Sit down,” he asked. “Please.”

But the Indians didn’t understand and he had to repeat himself, pantomiming the act of sitting as he spoke.

When they were down he rushed over to the supply hut and returned as quickly carrying a five-pound sack of beans and a grinder. Once he had the fire going, Lieutenant Dunbar poured beans into the rim of the grinder’s funnel and started cranking the handle.

As the beans began to disappear down the grinder’s metal cone, he could see that Kicking Bird and Wind In His Hair were leaning forward curiously. He hadn’t realized that something so ordinary as grinding coffee could be magic. But it was magic to Kicking Bird and Wind In His Hair. Neither one had ever seen a coffee grinder.

Lieutenant Dunbar was thrilled to be with people after all this time and was anxious for his guests to stay awhile, so he milked the grinding operation for all it was worth. Stopping abruptly, he moved the machine a couple of feet closer to the Indians, providing them with a clearer view of the process. He cranked slowly, letting them watch the beans descend. When there were only a few left he finished with a flourish, cranking with a wild, theatrical flair. Then he paused with the dramatic effect of a magician, allowing his audience to react.

Kicking Bird was intrigued with the machine itself. He ran his fingertips lightly against one of the grinder’s slick wooden sides. True to his nature, Wind In His Hair found the crushing mechanism most to his liking. He stuck one of his long, dark fingers into the funnel and felt around the little hole at the bottom, hoping to find out what had happened to the beans.

It was time for the finale, and Dunbar interrupted these inspections by holding up a hand. Turning the machine around, he squeezed the little knob at its base between his fingers. The Indians bent their heads, more curious than ever.

At the last possible moment and in the way someone might reveal a fabulous jewel, Lieutenant Dunbar’s eyes widened, a smile sprang up on his face, and out came the drawer, filled with fresh black grounds.

Both Comanches were mightily impressed. Each took little dabs of pulverized beans and sniffed. Then they sat quietly as their host hung his pot over the fire and let the water come to a boil, awaiting the next development.

Dunbar served up the coffee, handing each of his guests a steaming black cup. The men let the aroma climb into their faces and exchanged knowing looks. This smelled like good coffee, much better than what they raided from the Mexicans for so many years. Much stronger.

Dunbar watched expectantly as they began to sip and was surprised when they screwed up their faces. Something was wrong. They both spoke a few words at once, a question, it seemed.

The lieutenant shook his head. “I don’t understand,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.

The Indians held a brief but inconclusive conference. Then Kicking Bird had an idea. He made a fist, held it over the cup, and opened his hand, as if he were letting something drop into the coffee. He pretended to stir what he had dropped with a twig.

Lieutenant Dunbar said something he didn’t understand and then Kicking Bird watched as the white man jumped up, walked to the badly made house of earth, returned with another sack, and handed it around the fire.

Kicking Bird looked inside, grunting when he saw the brown crystals.

Lieutenant Dunbar saw a smile flicker on the Indian’s face and knew he had guessed right. Sugar was what they had wanted.

Kicking Bird was especially encouraged by the white soldier’s enthusiasm. He wanted to make talk, and when they introduced themselves, Loo Ten Nant asked for the names several times, until he could speak them in the right way. He looked odd and he did some odd things, but the white man was eager to listen and seemed to have large stores of energy. Perhaps because he himself was so inclined toward peace, Kicking Bird greatly appreciated the force of energy in others.

He talked more than Kicking Bird was used to. When he thought about it, it seemed the white man never stopped talking the whole time.

But he was entertaining. He did strange dances and made strange signals with his hands and face. He even did some impressions that made Wind In His Hair laugh. And that was hard to do.

Aside from his general impressions, Kicking Bird had found out some things. Loo Ten Nant could not be a god. He was far too human. And he was alone. No one else was living there. But he did not learn why he was alone. Nor did he learn if more white men were coming and what their plans might be. Kicking Bird was anxious for the answers to these questions.

Wind In His Hair was just ahead. They were riding single file along a trail winding through a stand of cottonwoods close by the river. There was only the mushy plop of the ponies’ hooves in the wet sand, and he wondered what Wind In His Hair thought. They had not yet compared notes on the meeting. It worried him a little.

Kicking Bird needn’t have worried, for Wind In His Hair was also favorably impressed. This despite the fact that killing the white soldier crossed his mind several times. He had long thought white men were no more than useless irritations, coyotes getting around the meat. But more than once this white soldier had showed some bravery. He was friendly, too. And he was funny. Very funny.

Kicking Bird looked down at the two bags, the coffee and sugar flopping against his horse’s shoulders, and the idea came into his mind that he actually liked the white soldier. It was a strange idea and he had to think about it.

Well, what if I do? the medicine man thought at last.

He heard the muffled sound of laughter. It seemed to be coming from Wind In His Hair. Again there was a laugh out loud and the stern warrior turned on his pony, speaking over his shoulder.

“That was funny,” he sputtered, “when the white man became a buffalo.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned back to the trail. But Kicking Bird could see Wind In His Hair’s shoulders bouncing to the beat of stifled giggles.

It was funny. Loo Ten Nant walking around on his knees, his hands growing out of his head for horns. And that blanket, that blanket stuffed under his shirt for a hump.

No, Kicking Bird smiled to himself, nothing is stranger than a white man.

Lieutenant Dunbar spread the heavy robe out on his bunk and marveled at it.

I have never seen a buffalo, he thought pridefully, and already I have a buffalo robe.

Then he sat down rather reverently on the edge of the bed, fell onto his back, and swept his hands across the soft, thick hide. He lifted one of the edges hanging over the bunk and inspected the curing. He pressed his face against the fur and savored the wild smell.

How quickly things can change. A few hours before, he’d been rocked off his foundations, and now he was floating.

He frowned slightly. Some of his deportment, that buffalo thing, for instance, might have gone overboard. And he seemed to have done most of the talking, perhaps too much. But these were tiny doubts. As he ruminated on the great robe, he couldn’t help but be encouraged by his first real encounter.

He liked both Indians. The one with the smooth, dignified manner he liked most. There was something strong about him, something in his peaceful, patient manner that was appealing. He was quiet but manly. The other one, the hot-tempered one who had taken the girl from his arms, was certainly nobody to fool with. But he was fascinating.

And the robe. They had given it to him. The robe was really something.

The lieutenant played back other remembrances as he relaxed on his beautiful souvenir. With all these fresh thoughts flying through his head there was no room and no inclination to delve into the true source of his euphoria.

He had made good use of his time alone, time he had shared only with a horse and a wolf. He had done a good job with the fort. All of that was a mark in his favor. But the waiting and the worrying had clung to him like grease in a wrinkle, and the weight of this load had been considerable.

Now it was gone, lifted by two primitive men whose language he did not speak, whose likes he had not seen, whose entire state of being was alien.

Unwittingly they had done a great service by coming. The root of Dunbar’s euphoria could be found in deliverance. Deliverance from himself.

He was no longer alone.